Happy Birthday, Frank
by Cheaplaffs
Summary: When a deadly narcotic is threatened to be released on the unsuspecting population of New York, Frank Castle must delve into the city's seedy underground to put down a new and powerful mafia warlord before he can take his product public.
1. The First Moves

Sean Rahey remembered a time when the Irish ran Hell's Kitchen.

Before the mafia, before the Russians, and much before the ghetto street trash, Hell's Kitchen belonged to Ireland. Rahey, also knew that those days were long over. They died with the bitter introduction of bigger guns, higher body counts, and steadily increasing levels of bullshit. Fueled by coke and murdered by time. But those days were over, remembered only by decaying old men either too proud or too decrepit to accept they no longer controlled the Kitchen, and that their war had ended a very long time ago, alongside the one back home.

But Sean Rahey's war, so unlike the one he'd fought against the Protestants and the British, had never ended. As soon as one side grew too weak to support him, he would join the winners and move on. Never once had Sean Rahey's fighting stopped. Maybe it was because he could find no other purpose in his existence, or perhaps it was because, like so many veterans of that war fought on those rainy fields and buildings and gutters, knew that war was war whether it was fought for king, country, or mother-money.

Or perhaps it was because he had truly gone mad.

And all through those years, never once had Sean Rahey known anything else. And throughout those long years, and those long days, he found himself wishing more and more, with every fiber of his being-

That The Punisher was something more than a one-man army.

But there was no winning side he could join. No turncoat he could throw. Rahey was stuck fighting against a man who he knew had killed countless before him, and that with the smallest of efforts, could add all 6'4, two hundred and eighteen pounds of him to the body count.

And above all things, the one thing Sean Rahey disliked the most-

Was dying.

Sitting alone, watching the rain streak down the window of his high-rise penthouse paid for by dirty money and blood on each bill, Sean Rahey understood what being a very lonely Irishman in a place that had whispered the memories of a time it'd once been your child meant.

And standing finally to begin his evening anew with nothing but the prospects of further bloodshed and sin to spur him on, and perhaps, the fleeting hope that one day he would meet the man who would ultimately end him, he knew what that would mean for the rest of his life.

_'Someone once asked me why I do what I do.'_

The door was only halfway open when the sixteen gauge Remington 870 discharged buckshot, which took with it not only half of the reinforced wood, but partially obliterated the doorman's skull. The broken remains of what once could be defined as a door swung open, and before the doorman's body could smack the floor and spill itself, he stepped inside and pumped a fresh shell into the barrel.

But by then the men inside had gotten over their initial shock and dived for cover, weapons, or both.

The Punisher only lowered his eyes.

_'Why I do it every day.'_

These men were not mafia.

Nor were they Russian.

Nor were they intelligent.

Even after the bullets started snapping past his ear and ripping the walls of the house apart around him, The Punisher moved unhampered, positioning himself more appropriately. Patience and training were two things the junkies lacked the most, and it didn't take long for one of them to grow tired of their position and relocate.

'_Why I don't stop.'_

Castle stepped out, jabbing the barrel of his weapon into the man's ribs and squeezed the trigger, blowing the contents of his stomach out his lower back and splattering the men behind him. He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, which was ages of time as The Punisher lashed out, grabbing hold of the crumpling man, too stupid to realize he was dead, and throw him into the path of another pump-action's blast, meant for the dark man in the trench coat. The shooter jabbered something incoherent that could have been either a curse or an apology, but either suited him little as his enemy raised his weapon again in one hand, discharging another shell into central mass to blow him off his feet in a smoking pile of limbs.

'_Why so many people have to die.'_

The Punisher shoved the disfigured remains of his human shield to the ground with a slight snarl, as if he was sick of the filth being so near him, then shifted his gloved hand to the pump of his weapon and loaded another shell into the barrel, taking mental note of his ammunition. Despite their haphazard aim, he doubted the shooters would give him equal opportunity to reload, and it was only a matter of time before one of them would get lucky.

And lucky shots were never in the Kevlar.

'_I turned fifty-one today.'_

So he relocated, finally taking cover.

Berretta's and Pump-Actions. Castle was inwardly glad they had no automatics, as the environment would be like being stuck in a tin can filled with razor blades. Automatic rounds would ricochet and physics was never his best subject.

A brief pause in their shooting. Now.

'_My wife would be fifty.'_

Castle had been in this situation far too many times to count: the action of suppression, flanking, and re-position. So many times had he replayed this calculated game of chance and lead, and so many times had he administered the most obvious, basic solution.

The Punisher jerked the pin on a fragmentation grenade. He was about to test his theory on ricochet.

'_My daughter would be thirty-eight.'_

He almost expected the grenade to come clacking back on his side. For the shooters to take cover. For someone to throw themselves on it and scream gory, patriotic allegiance.

But he remembered that this was not Vietnam.

They screamed and died, and the room was alit by shards of razor and agony. The Punisher was up and moving the second the pieces stopped flying, a 1911A1 held in each hand. Drums went off. Crunch time.

Survivors were hardly a factor. Three rounds went off- two in the chest and one in the head- ending a man scrambling for some kind of weapon to shoot back with. Someone coughed, leveling a shotgun. The Punisher put a .45 slug in his forehead, flipping one of the weapons and holstering it as he spotted someone making for the back room. There was no time to stop him now, but from the way he was limping, Castle knew running wouldn't be an option for him long.

'_My son would be thirty-four.'_

The Punisher was a phantom, wading through the bodies with a slurp of his coat tails, his stride defiant and purposeful. Someone whimpered, silenced with a single _coff_ of a 1911, which Castle fired without looking.

It's always the important ones that run.

'_I don't have many birthdays. Not since they bled out in my arms.'_

The shriek up ahead told him that Garcia's adrenaline had run out and his body had realized it was too pissed off to continue carrying him on shredded legs. The Punisher understood his pain. One soldier to another.

"Lorenzo Garcia."

The voice was like grave dust in a cement mixer. One that Lorenzo Garcia could reply to only by shrieking something in Spanish and wetting himself. Through the dust and blood in the air, a single figment came billowing into sight before cold, steel blue eyes and a fourteen gauge Remington.

A white skull on black.

Lorenzo Garcia was a drug dealer. A heroin dealer. And as the subject of his nightmares drew closer, he realized why this was happening. Somewhere in that cloud of marijuana smoke and burnt-out brain cells, Garcia got the idea that he could be somewhat valuable to The Punisher.

Very, very valuable. Perhaps valuable enough for the man not to kill him.

Although that was speculation.

"Wait, wait! I-I can help you! Please!"

Castle frowned and pumped a shell into the barrel. "Talk."

'_But occasionally someone comes along and makes one worth while.'_

"The heroin! The heroin- its different!"

"Different. Different how?"

"I dunno! Its cheaper! And-and it's better, too! Like… like a super-drug!"

The impatient shuffle of the big man's feet made it clear that he wasn't satisfied with Garcia's delaying. It was almost as if he'd rather Garcia would beg so he could finish it and not feel like he could have missed something important. Regardless, Lorenzo had to think fast with his limited vocabulary and even less capable brain tissue.

"The shit's fucked up! This guy… this guy, Malachi! He sold it to me! Mafia, mafia or something! He said it was a gift!"

"Where."

"I don't know! I-"

"Then you're no good to me." Castle took another step forward, closing within killing range.

"Wait! Wait! Central and fourth! Near the park!"

"I don't like being lied to."

"I swear on my fucking mother's grave! I swear to god it's the truth! Please don't kill me!"

His mother's grave. Castle sneered.

"Please…" Tears welled up in the drug dealer's eyes and he clawed at the tile, "Please don't kill me!"

The Punisher frowned. "Where can I find out about Malachi?"

'_Happy birthday, Frank.'_

"He's all over central! You can't swing a stick without hittin' this guy! He's got his fingers in everyone's fucking pies! The Mob's pissed! Everyone wants a piece of his action, and he sells his shit to everyone, even us! That's where I found out about him!"

"Right."

'_Says New York.'_

He squeezed the trigger.


	2. The Lights and Darks

There were only two things on the waking earth that Malachi was afraid of. The first was death. The second was The Punisher. But then again, everyone was afraid of Frank Castle. Death and the Punisher were old friends, very old friends. He was like the devil to devils. And no matter how much Malachi wanted to believe it, he could never be as scary.

The body count was simply too outweighed.

Malachi leaned back in his chair, drumming his dark fingers impatiently on the surface of the desk. He wanted to lash out verbally at the two armed doormen, demanding to know how much longer the Vallancis would keep him waiting. But he decided against it, looking up coldly at Rahey's chest, standing behind him with his massive arms folded neatly behind his back. His brown eyes were focused ahead, perhaps staring down the two gunmen, or perhaps they were off on some distant, killing field, enacting ungodly deeds against whomever happened to be there, stuck in his dreams. Malachi breathed, hoping it wasn't him.

"Where th' fuck are these fuckin' clowns?"

Malachi shot a look at Boston, frowned slightly, then nodded, deciding he was somewhat satisfied that the man had taken the time to read his thoughts and spout the stupid question before Malachi's impatience did.

"Relax." Malachi's calm, Brooklyn voice helped to soothe the man's annoyance. "Once they get here, it'll be worth it." He then frowned, remembering what he was answering. "And watch your language."

"This is a big fuckin' deal, Malachi." Someone justified his words, "You sure you're up for this shit?"

Malachi, at first, wanted to shoot him. But his second thought was that doing so would probably not be the best of moves, so instead he regained his crumbling composure and simply nodded, his dark eyes waning slightly, perhaps in hurried annoyance. The loud mouth caught on and shut up.

"Yo, Malachi-" One of the bouncers stuck his head through the door, and the two gunmen turned slightly towards the crack out of habit, only to sink back into their positions after realizing they didn't have to kill anyone. "They'se here."

He sat forward and wrung his hands together in sudden anticipation, nodding quickly. "Yes, of course," He looked to the gunmen at the door, then to his associates around the table as if to ensure that they were ready. Satisfied, he set loose another rampancy of nods and coughed out, "Let out guests in."

Malachi was fixing his tie when three Vallanci spooks came through the door and found spots to stand alongside the walls, followed by a beautiful young woman in a ritzy dress and a tall, handsome man with slicked back black hair and a winning smile. "Sorry we're late."

Malachi stood up, outstretching one hand to shake the guest's, then the woman's, and motioned to the chair across the table from him with a smile.

"I'm glad you've decided to join us…" Malachi trailed off his sentence, implying that he wanted the man to finish it with his name. It was a brash, somewhat informal move, but Malachi wanted to play this as smoothly as possible. If all went through, they were going to have more assets than liabilities, and that was what they needed most desperately if they were going to fight the war fought on all fronts.

"Johnny De Marci." The man was so Italian he smelled like a boot. "And this is my girlfriend Gabrielle Vallanci." He glanced at the beautiful woman, taking a seat after one of the Vallanci gunmen pulled the chair out for her.

She smiled and sat forward, "I was told you had a business proposition for my father, and before my family does business with you, I would like to see what you have to offer us."

Malachi smirked. "Of course."

Rahey turned slowly, taking hold of the suitcase resting on the table behind him- next to the loaded Uzi- and set it down on the table in front of Malachi as if he were prompted to do so. The Irishman flipped open the top and pulled it open, stepping back so Malachi could take over and explain the glowing blue liquid stored in transparent glass tubes in the satin briefcase.

"Diacetylmorphine hydrochloride. Concentrated, diluted, and over-spun. But there's something very different about my stuff." A sinister grin spilled over the man's dark lips, and he almost laughed.

Both of them sat forward, instantly interested in what this man was showing them. It was heroin. Obviously… but there was something incredibly different about this man's Horse. Something that grabbed their attention, pulling them towards the ocean blue fluid instilled in its glass containers. Malachi continued, his pleausure infinate.

"Imagine a narcotic undetectible by any means available to the police, completely concentrated, and without the side affects such as nasea and hypotension. So completely perfect in every way and in every respect. This stuff is a work of beauty. Addictive, yes," He chuckled, "Very addictive."

De Marci lowered his eyes. "How much?"

Malachi jerked his head to the side with a grin, as if to say 'you'll see' and slowly pushed the suitcase towards him. "Take it. Consider it a gift." He looked over at Gabrielle and winked. "Take it home, show your father, and call me in the morning." The dark-skinned man laughed again, "And tell him there's plenty more where that came from."

Gabrielle frowned slightly, her brown eyes focused on Malachi for several seconds before her gentle lips parted and spoke the words everyone in the room was anticipating, dreading, and wondering all at the same time.

"What about The Punisher?"

Malachi smiled.

Sarah Wright is afraid of the dark.

She opened her eyes, and when she couldn't feel Michael beside her, she sat up. The beautiful, straight, shoulder-length brown strands of her hair fell down her face as she propped up on an elbow, the covers sliding off her naked form as her blue eyes searched the room, a concerned expression across her face that asked the darkness where she could find her husband.

Ever since she was a little girl, Sarah had been afraid of the dark. When she was eight she accidentally locked herself in a closet for several hours, weeping quietly as the walls closed in on her and the boogeyman explained what horrible, terrible things he was going to do to her as soon as she opened her eyes.

"Mike?"

The sound of her own voice frightened Sarah a little, and she pulled the sheets up higher on her body and clutched them to her front with both hands, pushing off the bed to sit upright. Still her eyes would not respond to her dark need for awareness, and when she could stand the cold night air against her bare back no longer she slid out of bed and donned her nightgown, clasping the silk tails closed with one hand as she made her way out of the bedroom, her eyes pressed to see through the cloaked darkness that suffocated her apartment before she realized she could turn a light on and suddenly felt very silly for being so afraid.

Mike wasn't in the room. He wasn't sitting on the couch with a big smile on his face reading the paper. He wasn't preparing breakfast… or waiting for her to fold into his arms so he could comfort her.

The balcony door was open.

Sarah faced it with open eyes. Her hand fell from the tails of her robe and her lips quivered. Feet came forward without the brain sending them messages and she was moving towards the open doors, her brain trying to grab desperately on to the wall and stop herself but curiosity, worry, and fear banded together and beat logic down. Her stomach bound up in bunches and she let out a shivering breath, stepping out into the rain. Her feet bled against the wet concrete, the cold of the balcony burning them when a chill wind flowed up her robe and struck out against her nakedness.

Sarah Wright is afraid of the dark

Ever since she was eight years old and she locked herself in that closet. The night scared her down to her very bones and shook them twice as hard. Around every corner a rapist, a murderer, and a psycho waited for her. Maybe that's why she didn't want to look down. But fear is funny that way.

You always look.

Her breath came out in gulping seizes and she balked, falling back into the house and crashed to the floor, grabbing at her face and screaming out in grief, as if to pull the sight from her eyes before they burned into her memory. She collapsed on the floor and cried with her eyes squeezed closed, her fists balled against her forehead. She wept and sobbed until her trained mind was able to compose itself long enough to do something, anything.

"H-help!"

The attempt was hardly noteworthy.

Sarah Wright gave up instantly, lying there on the floor with only her tears and the rain streaming through the window…


	3. A Walk in the Park

Numb.

That was the only word Sarah Wright's present state of mind allowed her vocabulary to describe how it was feeling. The police had arrived as she had a thousand times, and within minutes they'd secured her living room to run forensics. She sat on the loveseat in the den, just in the next room with her nightgown pulled up around her and a fresh cup of coffee sitting on the glass table in front of her.

She'd always liked that table. It was expensive… and it was too small for the room… but she'd bought it anyway. Sarah blinked at it and turned her head, as if by shame.

"I can't go on lying to you, Sarah," One of the detectives read Michael's suicide note out loud, holding it between his gloved fingers. He sighed, and even though Sarah couldn't see him through the wall of her den, she could tell his head was shaking. "Poor bastard." Sarah winced.

"Have some fuckin' respect, Dave. She's still in the house."

Her eyes lowered slowly, her expression dampening as she glanced over to the steaming coffee sitting on the table in front of her, and she considered taking a sip.

"Sarah Wright?"

She looked up at the doorway of the den to the familiar detective standing there in a long coat and holding another cup of coffee, assuming that she would have already finished the first one he'd poured for her. When he noticed she hadn't touched the first one, he set it down on the way in. Sarah nodded slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand, her eyes turning from him. "Yeah." She said after a few seconds, for the sake of answering his question, and the one that would inevitably come after it, which he asked anyway.

"My name is Detective Jason Dodson. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your husband?"

She nodded again and curled her legs up on the couch beside her, holding them there with her free hand. The detective took a seat on the couch across from her and sat forward, his two index fingers propping up his chin once he'd set the file folders down on his lap. "Do you have any idea why your husband would commit suicide, Mrs. Wright?"

She shook her head and swallowed, trying to hold back another outburst of tears that began welling up in her throat. After a breath she was finally able to speak, but the words came out runny and choked. "We were happy…"

Dodson dropped his eyes out of respect, his fingers untwining the red string that secured the flap on the file folders, slowly and deliberately so, as if they didn't want to have to reveal what they knew were inside. "Ma'am… did you know that your husband was involved in organized crime?"

What remained of the pulsating mass that had once been her heart detonated into razor fragments and her eyes shot up at him, deeply offended. How could he say something like that to her? How could…

"H-….How could…?" She quivered, raising her free hand to cover her mouth as her eyes distorted and the tears came. "How could you say that…?"

Jason Dodson was merciless. "Mrs. Wright, we have reason to believe that Michael was involved in an mob activities for several years. The NYPD have evidence that point towards Michael being caught up with some very dangerous people. We believe that he committed suicide to protect you from them."

Sarah's numbness ebbed away, and a dagger of white-hot pain shot through her chest, which she winced to, her face contorting in a noiseless cough as the tears streamed down her face. Detective Dodson began sliding various file photos and documents out of the folder, his eyes averted to give her time to digest the information. He was merciless, but he was not heartless. Sarah began to wonder, painfully, the difference between the two.

"Why?" She asked, her red, puffy eyes demanded angrily. She wasn't entirely sure where this new anger had come from, but she held on to it, clutched it. For it was less painful than sorrow.

Dodson ignored her question entirely, instead continuing his point. "We can stop the people that Michael was involved with, Sarah, but we need your help. Is there anything, anything at all that could point us in their direction?" His eyes pleaded with her out of sympathy and compassion, but Sarah would have none of it. "Did he mention anything to you about his career… or the people he worked with…?"

Mike was a flourist. He worked in a greenhouse… he would bring her home flowers when she was sad… when they were fighting…

"No." She said, her eyes defiant. "He didn't tell me anything."

Dodson leaned forward in her peripheral vision, and Sarah looked up, noticing that he'd extended a card to her. "Take it." He said, "If you need _anything_- give me a call."

Sarah took his card and held it up as if she were reading it, but her eyes were focused on Detective Dodson, unmoving, as she studied his face. She nodded slowly, not necessarily to his words, but perhaps to humor him. Jason stood and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing sympathetically as the investigators and police officers gathered their forensics and finished taking photographs, moving to leave the apartment. "We'll get them, Sarah." The hand lifted.

"I promise."

Sarah didn't watch him leave.

Hate.

That was the only word Sarah Wright's present state of mind allowed her vocabulary to describe how it was feeling. She hated the people that did this to Michael. She hated the police for being powerless. And she hated herself for not knowing. She could feel her grief beginning to melt away. Her hatred consumed the substance of her very soul. It burned out the fine lines of logic and ate away at her sanity. She found it comforting. It whispered devilish nothings in her ear. Her hatred was less painful than her grief. She succumbed to it, accepted it, and became it. Her hatred allowed her to blink the tears from her eyes and crumple Dodson's card in her fist, her eyes lowering in pure fury and unthinking anger.

"Yes," She whispered, standing slowly and letting the tails of her nightgown swing open.

"We will get them."

'_Central.'_

The car pulled up on the lateral street, overlooking the squared-out landscape of central park. It was too early in the morning for anyone to be around there now. Everyone was too afraid to go near the park until the sun came up. It was too dangerous. The driver killed the headlights and sat silently, watching. His gloved hands gripping the steering wheel as if he were about to be blown free.

'It was a sunny day the last time I was here. Thirty years and I can still remember the expression on my wife's face when she crumpled on the grass.'

The car started forward at a trolling pace, stalking along the street. The driver's face was stone and steel, unmoving, illuminated only by the occasional passing headlight from traffic moving in the opposite direction.

'_Central Park is a graveyard filled with ghosts and buried shell casings. With wise guys wearing cement boots and skeletons with gags in their mouths. Police tape and witnesses. Saints and sinners._

_And for twelve dollars a man with a horse can give you a tour.'_

The driver knew nobody would attack him outright. Too many tourists, too many people to be caught in the crossfire. Too many wasted bullets. The real war, he knew, took place behind closed doors and in the darkness of the labyrinthine alley ways and ditches. So the people from out of town could enjoy the sunshine and the bliss without having to live with what everyone else knew was going on behind those doors and in those alleys.

Where the world was still sane and gas prices were low.

'_Every time I kick the door in, every time I set the explosives, every time I find myself getting lazy, getting sloppy, Maria and Lisa and Frank Jr. look back at me and I shoot straight. Fight harder. And keep going._

_But they're dead. And nothing I do is going to change that. _

_So I live every day like it was their last.'_

The car parked slowly in a lot connected to a small diner, which according to the sign on the door wouldn't be open for another four hours. To the general public this declaration was valid.

For drug pushers, murderers, sadists and psychos- it was ladies' night.

The Punisher lowered his eyes.

'If my information is correct- which it always is- this diner's a front for a number of illegal activities.

_Narcotic trafficking, prostitution, and illegal gambling. _

_A pimp gave me a key to the back door before he bled out, so I figured I'd give it a shot. _

_If Malachi has strings attached to this place, I'm going to follow them straight to his fingers._

_Then I'm going to chop them off.' _

Castle spun around the circumference of the car and opened the trunk, taking its contents into both hands and pulling them out. A duffel bag in one hand and an Uzi in the other. He made his way brazenly towards the back of the building across the parking lot, tossing the bag carelessly next to the door and fished around inside of his coat until he retrieved a set of keys attached to an eight ball key chain, shoving it into the lock and twisting before shoving the door open with his fingers and snatching up the bag again, heading downstairs.

The basement was nothing but strobe, dark, and blaring music that sounded like the vocalist was vomiting into a bucket with a throat ache. A sea of people pulsated and vibrated against each other in the darkness, with dancers elevated above them grinding against poles.

Half of them were under aged minors.

_'Fuck this.'_

The sound of gunfire reverberated through the sound-proof basement so loud nobody could scream. Halfway through the thirty round magazine, somebody got the idea that turning the lights on and killing the music would be a good idea.

Castle stood with a meter-wide circle of breadth around him, every set of eyes in the room were locked on him, unable to do anything but not blink.

"I'm going to reload now- and when I'm done I'm going to shoot anyone still in this room." He dropped the magazine out of his weapon and fished around inside his coat. When nobody moved Castle frowned.

'_Three…_

_two…_

_one…'_

"I-I-It's the PUNISHER!"

"He's going to kill us all!"

"Let's get the fuck out of here!"

"Run!"

The Punisher dropped the duffel bag and fed another magazine into his sub-machine gun, jerking back the locking bolt as soon as the room had cleared out.

_'They better not scratch my car.'_

His blue eyes glanced over to the women cowering in the corner. By the look of them, the average age was sixteen. Castle strode over to them, the weapon held at his side and his eyes cold and lowered. None of them were brave enough to ask what they were all wondering, but none of them had to.

"You're okay, I'm not going to hurt you."

The words didn't seem to help very much, and did even less to aliviate their fears. The Punisher was about to say something when he heard movement behind the bar. He clutched his weapon tighter and sneered.

"Get out of here and call the police. Right now."

They did as they were told. Unquestioningly. That was good, because he didn't want them to see what he was about to do to their boss who threw his hands up and waved a white handkerchief, his head still ducked behind the bar.

"I surrender!"

A hand of gloved steel grabbed him by the back of his collar and jerked him to his feet, followed by a second one in the form of a fist in his nose. Blood splattered, and the man was thrown backwards into the shelves of his illegal bar, sending a variety of alcohol spilling out onto the floor.

"Business been good lately? Do you pay them student wages? Or do they volunteer?"

The same set of hands took hold of him again and dragged him across the bar, throwing him out on the dance floor. The man rolled as he landed and tried to scramble to his feet when a boot caught him in the groin and he jolted into the air, landing on his stomach with a yelp of missing wind.

"Let's tell each other secrets," The Punisher kicked him again in the side, then reached down and pulled him up within a hand's breadth of his sneering face. The owner wet himself.

Castle curled a lip at him, scowling as he explained the rules of his game.

"You first."


	4. Perfect Strangers

_'Wired the place with enough explosives to send a small satellite into orbit. There's not enough time to search the place for drugs- better to just torch the whole building and be done with it. The owner was on the phone when I walked in, and if he had half a brain his reinforcements are going to be here any second.'_

Castle walked backwards through the dance floor, uncoiling copper wire from a spool as he went. Just before he reached the door he reached into his coat pocket and produced a pair of wire cutters, snipping off the end. He tossed the spool to the side carelessly and retrieved the detonator from his pocket, wiring the copper inside, and then moved to open the door.

On the other side stood six armed men wearing suits, drenched from the rain. They looked about as surprised as Castle did. He frowned.

_'Shit.'_

The round slammed into his chest so hard he was thrown to the ground, as if he were magnetically drawn there, the wind bursting from his lungs like a bat out of hell.

_'Fourteen gauge at point blank. Feels like I've been hit with a block of cement shot out of a canon.'_

The shooter pumped his weapon and stepped forward, leveling the barrel at Castle's head as he coughed, rolling over on the cement. The Punisher, despite the absolute agony wracking through his body, pulled himself up into a sitting position.

"Guess we didn't get here too late after all, eh fellas?" The goombah with missing teeth laughed through the barrel of his pump action and the guys behind him with Uzis were eating it with a spoon. Castle ground his jaw together and sneered.

_'Takes me three seconds to renew my faith in Kevlar, and another four to realize I'm not fighting ghetto street trash anymore and figure this guy has the balls to pull the trigger. They're Mafia by the look of them. Vallanis, but what are they doing here?'_

"I'm gunna be the guy everyone know'se took down the Punisher!" And he was serious, too. The shooter shouldered his shotgun like he'd seen a man in an action movie do once, and squinted one eye down the barrel as he drew a bead on the Punisher's head, despite the fact that at this range the shotgun was firing anvils and pianos. But this was not a cartoon, and this was not an action movie.

"Die, you prick."

_'There will come a day, when I am old and tired, when I will look into the face of death and nod, "Yes. It's time." _

_But that is not today.'_

Just before the man squeezed the trigger, Castle was a blur of motion. He took hold of the barrel and ripped it adjacent, then applied both hands to the weapon and shoved it forward, catching the man in the groin with the butt of the gun. The shooter let out a yelp and stumbled backwards. The Punisher twisted the weapon and pulled as he jumped to his feet, ripping the man up off the ground with him, as he was still holding on to his gun and spun at the last second, placing the gunmen back to front against his chest. Castle kneed him in the lower back and relieved him of his weapon with one hand, using the other to grab him by the back of his shirt and hold him in place.

The entire action had taken less than five seconds, and now the tables had turned. Frank Castle was armed, and every single one of the mafia soldiers, they knew, were about to die.

The gunfire could be heard out in the street, although it was the only sound from the basement of the club that could be heard in the darkened van parked across the street through the droning groan and clatter of the rain, falling in torrents that had suddenly descended upon the city without warning and without mercy, and had lasted for several days. Sean Rahey stared out the front windshield of the car, his leather gloved hands gripping the steering wheel as if he were posed to make a getaway any moment. The man sitting shotgun fidgeted with his weapon restlessly, sweat beginning to ebb on his brow and his facial muscles twitched slightly in flinch with every gunshot.

He thought he heard a scream.

"C'mon, man! He's killin' them in there!"

Sean did not care. The men the Punisher was murdering were not under his command, and thus their screams and deaths were as insignificant to him as the rain that trailed down the windshield, only to be defeated by the unyielding tide of the punishing window wiper. He didn't care that the seven men in the car wanted to help their friends and go off to inevitably die with them, and he sure as fuck didn't care that one of them had the balls to ask for it.

The gunfire stopped, and seconds passed, audited by the rainfall and the frowing tension inside the car. Rahey's eyes finally broke for but a second to glance over his shoulder, and the briefest of smirks spread across his face.

"Too late."

He could feel the seven men's eyes on the back of his head, each one angry and murderous in their fury.

But he didn't care.

"Ta' hell with you, Lucky. Go back to your fuckin' rainbow and grow some balls. C'mon, boys. Let's get this fuckin' prick."

The loud mouth swore and slid open the van door, allowing the muffled sound of the rainfall to come screaming through the car as the gunmen piled out after him and readied their weapons. The soldier riding shotgun to Rahey shot the Irishman a dirty look, pulled back the slide on his berretta, and shoved the door open, following them.

Sean Rahey only smiled.

"Alright, stay quiet. This asshole don't know we're here, so if we're quiet we migh' be able to get a drop on 'em." The suited mafia men approached the club, now quiet as a tomb and gathered just outside the basement entrance.

None of them took notice that the door was now suddenly closed.

_'These men may hold weapons…'_

"So stay low and keep your fuckin' mouths shut!"

_'They may know how to use them…'_

"Alright, ready?"

"Open th' fuckin' door, Bobby. What's this, fuckin' Savin' Private Dickhead?"

_'They may think they know what war is…'_

The men made sure their weapons were secure. One man took each side of the doorframe, with one man directly in front and the others fanning out behind him. The loud mouth, sweat beading down his face, swore under his breath, and gripped the door handle.

_'But they are not soldiers.'_

The men were pushing forward before the door had fully swung open, which is why they at first didn't notice the trip wire being drawn across the space between the wall and the door until the first man caught a glimpse of something duct taped to the wall and his eyes shot open in shock. His mouth may have moved to speak, but there was no way to be completely sure.

_'They're just scum.'_

The building exploded.

Rahey was not phased by the explosion which alit the night air with plumes of smoke, fire, and debris. The rainfall seemed to dissolve for seconds at a time before the explosions died down, leaving behind only the reminiscent fires that burned through the blasted out windows and doors, spilling smoke out into the street.

Through the illumination of the flames, Rahey picked up a sole figure standing, watching in the luminance as the building burned to the ground. The figure turned his head, his cold, blue eyes staring right back at the Irishman through the windshield of his car. For a moment or two the pairs of eyes locked and fought, and as quickly as the look had come, the figure turned his head slowly and walked away, disappearing into the shadows.

Sean Rahey smiled.


	5. Wright and Wrong

"I need everything the department has on Michael Wright."

John gave Agent Wright a quirked eyebrow, and as his brain ran through the possible motives and decided on the most probable, his face sunk and he sighed, running stubby fingers over his thinning hair.

"Sarah… You know I can't."

Her face tightened up and she adjusted her skirt with both hands, flattening out the creases as she bit her bottom lip, trying to think of a way to convince him. She knew she would have to play on John's humanity… or maybe his friendship. Otherwise there would be no way for her to convince the middle-aged man to break protocol so heavily and so blatantly. She let her eyes slide inwards a little and she pressed against his desk, trying to look a little intimidating. Her fingers found the surface of his desk, and her voice begged with him as a friend. Not a colleague. "John… please."

The man sighed again and shook his fat head. "I can't. Besides, this is an NYPD sanctioned investigation. Even if I had the authority to give you the files, it's out of your jurisdiction."

"I can make it in my jurisdiction." Sarah promised, her eyes lowering to show her seriousness. It did little to sway John, only frustrate him further. "John, I need this. You know as well as I do whose payroll half the NYPD-"

John's face became a dagger of anger and he lunged it forward, bringing his face close to Sarah's. "Stop. Stop **right** there." His dark eyes swallowed into seriousness and he waited a few seconds for Sarah's face to sink from its surprise. "This is not the place, nor the time to have this sort of conversation." His brows furrowed, "And you know that as well as I do."

"Then where?"

"My office. Four o'clock."

"Thank you." She pulled away from him and spun quickly with a sweep of her hair, moving briskly down the halls away from the cubicles and towards the holding cells without another word. She tried to contain herself, but as soon as the door closed behind her she sunk against the wall and exhaled sharply, her breath coming out in gasps.

John sat quietly for a long time, staring at the computer screen in front of him. He lowered his eyes and whispered something under his breath, wishing he could get a beer.

"Don't mention it, Sarah."

He sighed, "Please."

Detective Soap's life was miserable.

There was no denying it. Maybe he was born under an unlucky sign. Maybe his mother was cursed… or maybe his father's fish didn't swim downstream on the right side of the brook.

Or maybe he was just being pessimistic.

But really, Soap had a pretty easy gig. One would think being part of the Punisher Task Force would be a pretty shitty job, seeing in how nobody's been able to touch the guy unless he's wanted them to. And at first, for a while, it was. But that was a while ago. Soap had no reason to believe he'd ever take the Punisher in alive, but he figured as long as the department figured he was trying; they couldn't really do anything about it. He just wished…

The detective shifted the boxes filled to the top with file folders, documents and today's Daily Bugle with a relevant headline under his right arm, fumbling for the door handle with his left. The door had _'Soap'_ stenciled over the white-stained _'Janitor'_ that'd once occupied the space on the glass. Soap figured the last guy must've been ridiculed pretty heavily at school with a last name like that. Yeah, that was it. As always the little office was far too dark to see. He was sure that if he hadn't organized the ceiling-high stacks of boxes against the walls properly he would surely be hard-pressed to find his desk, and beyond that, the chain to trigger the light-

Like being slapped in the face with a white rubber glove, the lights in the room exploded on and Soap screamed, dropping everything in his arms all over the floor. The Punisher stood there, his hand still on the chain, with his eyes lowered into a condescending stare.

Soap clutched his chest and heaved, his face twisting into a frown.

"One of these days, Castle- You're going to be the death of me, I swear to Christ."

Castle let go of the chain and hunkered backwards, leaning on his desk with his arms crossed over his chest. While Soap gathered his belongings, he turned his face up into a scowl and waited a few seconds to ensure the detective was listening. "I need some information on the Vallanci's, Soap. I thought the Don was dead."

"Me too," Soap confessed, standing and brushing off the sleeve of his tan suit. "Considering you killed him."

"I did." Castle shot, his eyes falling into a frown. "But that doesn't explain why they attacked me last night."

"Where?"

"Central and third."

"Near the park?"

Castle's face turned into a tombstone and he cracked the knuckles on his right hand by balling a fist. "Yeah."

"Maybe one of the kids…?"

"His brother." Castle corrected after a short pause of thought, turned aside, and frowned at the prospect. About a month or so ago he'd cracked down on the Vallanci drug running operations at the city docks and in Hell's Kitchen. He'd killed Don Marcio and all of his lieutenants, but the job was far from finished. The Vallanci's habitually moved all of their equipment and manpower over from across the continent. Castle figured that even if the Hell's Kitchen operations were shut down, it would only be a matter of weeks before Julian Vallanci moved in and took over his brother's tombstone. Everything clicked together after a moment or two, but The Punisher found himself a little surprised at their tenacity. He didn't expect to have to lay down a second coat until the winter, at least. That meant Julian Vallanci just climbed to the very top of his list.

"Have you seen the papers lately?" Soap handed the folded newspaper to Castle.

"My subscription was lost in the mail." Castle remarked, turning his eyes aside.

"You'll want to pick up this one."

Castle took the paper from him without looking, letting his forefingers loosen to let the bottom fold uncoil.

The Punisher firebombs local Diner- Fifteen Dead 

"Got a case of the munchies in your sleep again?" Soap joked, but his smart-assed smile was wiped away by a shooting glare from Castle. The detective swallowed hard. The Punisher tossed the paper back to Soap and pulled on the tail of his coat, reaching inside. After half a moment of awkward silence he spoke with a grave tone in his voice.

"You know anything about Malachi?"

Soap shrugged, "Sorry, I'm not Jewish."

Castle shot him a look.

"I've only heard the name. We don't even know if the guy's real or not. Nobody in the department'll touch him without proof."

The Punisher heaved his chest and turned his head aside, his face looking a little annoyed.

'_That's a surprise. _

_Although I guess it shouldn't be. They don't have many donut shops on Central and Third.'_

"I can't move in on the Vallanci's without knowing exactly what I'm dealing with, or else in three weeks we'll be right back where we started." Castle turned his jaw up a little and bowed his head. "I won't let that happen, Soap."

The Detective sighed and ran a sweaty hand across the back of his equally sweaty neck, mumbling something about 'duty' under his breath. "Alright, alright, I'll see what I can turn up." Soap shrugged, then began to ask "Any idea where to start?"

"The Vallanci's were trying to protect something in the basement of that diner. Drugs. The lethal kind. And a lot of it." The Punisher looked up at Soap, almost for his approval. "I think Malachi is their supplier."

"You're sure?"

"No." Castle said, standing up slowly and taking his baseball cap off the desk. He made his way towards the door, but stopped just before leaving, looking over his shoulder with a calm expression. "That's why I come to you, Soap." He turned his head aside, slipping his hat on. "Don't let me down." Without another word he turned, and pushed open the office door, disappearing into the hall, his hands jammed in his pockets.

Detective Martin Soap dropped down in his wheelie chair and spun around once, facing the ceiling.

"Yeah," He said to nobody in particular, "You can count on me, Frank."

Castle moved through the police station with his head lowered, eyes stern. Not that he needed to. Nobody on god's green earth would expect The Punisher to walk around in broad daylight, especially in the middle of a police station. Hiding in plain sight. It works.

'Malachi's hiding like a rat and I've only got a few places left that I haven't checked- but after that I've got a few creative ideas.

_If Malachi is half the man the streets make him out to be, I've got a few things to work out before I can take him down. Have to play this one patient._

_He's got a brain if he's smart enough to hide from me. And that makes him dangerous.'_

Sarah slipped into the hallway, inhaled through her nose, straightened as tall as she could, fixed her hair- but not too much- then exhaled and took a step forward- bumping heavily into the tall, dark figure making his way down the hall. For a moment their eyes met, and she felt her stomach sink into the lower crevices of her body and her heart stopped for just a blink or two, sinking deep into those blue eyes. But just as quickly as it had come the eyes were gone, and he without so much as a flinch he was around the corner and out sight.

Sarah couldn't shake the feeling the man had given her. It almost seemed as if she should have recognized him somewhere… but couldn't quite put her finger on it. Regardless, Sarah Wright composed herself implementing the same process a second time, and followed the stranger's lead around the corner towards John's office.

There was no reason to loose sight of things now.

Not when she was so close.


End file.
